


Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?

by Radclyffe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Possible Optomistic Ending (But Only If You Squint), Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since Sherlock’s death, John’s need to take risks has brought him to the edge of destruction. Sherlock returns but is it too late to save John?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where is my Marlboro Man?

John Watson does not believe in Father Christmas…

…or Leprechauns 

…or the Tooth Fairy.

John Watson does not believe in miracles.

John Watson does not have to be a doctor to know that the man lying next to him is dead. His skin is grey his lips are blue; the eyes stare sightless in the dim neon light of the underpass. The dog whines and sniffs piteously at the mortal remains of his master, batting him softly with his muzzle before looking over to John, wary and trusting at the same time _do something; make this better_ , before nudging the man again. There is no movement.

John Watson is enough of a doctor still to check for signs of life. He crawls out of his sleeping bag and examines the body more by touch than sight. There are no signs of struggle, of violence, if it wasn’t for the clouded eyes, the pallor and slight stiffening of the limbs he would think the man asleep. Mid-December in London it is still dark, at the end of the underpass he can see the street lights are still on – five-thirty then, six o’clock? There’s no-one about, no early morning workers on their way in, no night-shifters going home.  John can only hazard a guess at the time; he doesn’t have a watch or a phone. Rigor has begun to set in but only just, allowing for the cold he would guess that the man has been dead about five hours. That would mean death around midnight, possibly earlier, possibly later, who knows? There was a time when he could pinpoint death as accurately as any Home Office pathologist, now he can’t even tell the time. Was the man already dead when John had bedded down for the night? John hadn’t spoken to him, it wasn’t done.If the temperature at night falls below freezing the council is supposed to take them off the streets, John Watson doesn’t know this. The man did but he wouldn’t be parted from his dog. It’s the same old story.

John Watson’s instinct is to make himself scarce. Dead bodies have featured heavily in his life so far and he knows they always mean trouble, one way or another. But the temptation to find out something about the man hangs heavy on him, for one brief moment to interact with another human being, even a dead one. He tries the pockets of the tattered overcoat, trousers, inside the ragged shirt – nothing. Tentatively he unzips the man’s sleeping bag, the smell of decay fills his nostrils, as if this man had died a long time ago, which John supposes in effect he had. He feels around the bottom and finds a tin, the kind that holds rolling tobacco, which this one does and a cheap plastic lighter. John doesn’t smoke, not yet, but takes it anyway. There’s also a small plastic money bag, like you get from the bank, in the half-light John can’t see clearly what it contains but feels only coins no paper. John puts it in his pocket. The man has no need for money now. A final forage produces a few scraps of paper, a letter in a brown envelope from Haringey Council,he flicks the lighter and reads _Dear Mr McDonald, I regret to inform you…blah, blah, blah_. John’s seen a few of those in his time; also a small square of folded paper, held together with tape, a birth certificate, John Andrew McDonald, _John_ that’s both a blessing and a curse; Sex: Male; Date of Birth: 24th August 1958, fifty-five then, John is not certain he can pass himself off as fifty-five. Sherlock would have been able to do it, but Sherlock is dead. 

John Watson doesn’t have anything to prove his identity. Passport, driver’s licence, birth certificate were all lost in the fire and they cost money to replace. Only one thing remains, and that only because he was wearing them at the time, of no material value, he has them still. Quickly and without much thought he slips the dog tags from round his neck and places them over that of the dead man. He frisks the body efficiently; after all he has seen enough men frisked in the past. He is as certain as he can be the man has nothing personal left in his possession. He zips up the sleeping bag.

John McDonald rolls up his own sleeping bag and stuffs it into the rucksack he’s been using as a pillow. The tobacco tin goes in after it; the scraps of paper join the coins in his pocket. A faint pink line is on the horizon; it is time to move on. John looks at the dog; the dog looks back at John. The dog is wearing a collar and is tethered to the corner of the man’s sleeping bag by its lead. Brutalised as he has been by life, John is not about to leave a starving dog next to a carcass.  John unties the lead, gives a gentle tug and makes a slight click with his tongue. For a moment John thinks the dog will refuse, but this is no Greyfriars Bobby, the dog lifts his head and shuffles obediently to John’s side. John checks he has everything, including the dog, takes a quick piss and walks away from John Watson without saying goodbye.

John McDonald walks out of the underpass and decides to head up west. Maybe check in at Charing Cross station, find out the time and with luck cadge a bit of change from the early morning commuters. He’s not hopeful but perhaps the dog will help. He has about a fiver of his own plus whatever’s in the little money bag. He might go down to Walmer Place, get a bit of breakfast maybe even a shower, see what they have in the way of clothes, find out about a night shelter for himself and the dog later, winter is setting in and it’s too cold to be down by the river. Walmer Place is about ten minutes’ walk from Baker Street plus a million miles. John walks with a purpose, head down, dog trotting faithfully beside him; he doesn’t draw attention to himself, doesn’t meet anyone’s eye. John doesn’t see the newspaper hoardings flapping in the breeze, or if he does he doesn’t read the banner headline.

“Miracle on Baker Street – Suicide Detective Lives” 

********

John Watson is numb. Ella asks him to describe his feelings, he doesn’t have any, he is numb, that’s the point. John gets angry, Ella says that’s good, he should be angry; he has the right to be angry, suicide often makes those left behind angry. John wonders if he should explain that he is angry with Ella and not with Sherlock, but doesn’t bother. Ella thinks they are making progress; John makes an appointment for the following week but doesn’t keep it.

John Watson has a job. Sarah phones out of the blue and offers him extended maternity leave cover at her new practice. John is surprised and detects the hand of Mycroft in it, but he doesn’t refuse, it is something to do, will maybe turn his thoughts from Sherlock; and he needs the money, he can’t afford London on an army pension. John likes to work, likes the routine, likes to get up in the morning and have tea and toast before walking to the surgery. He likes the other doctors, the nurses and the health visitors, the receptionists and even the cleaners. He likes the salary that is deposited into his account at the end of the month, he likes giving Mrs Hudson a cheque for the rent. He likes buying himself a new jumper and having a takeaway now and again. He does not like the patients.

John Watson is bored. It is flu season and if he sees one more upper respiratory tract infection he will be climbing the walls. It is party season; if he deals with one more aftermath of drunken unprotected intercourse he will explode. It is the holiday season; if he sees one more shirker trying to scrounge a note to go away for Christmas he willnot be responsible for his actions. After morning surgery ends he goes into the staffroom to make tea as he always does and thinks “well that was tedious”. The unconscious echo of his late flatmate causes him to shake; the intermittent tremor in his left hand is back.  Today the staffroom is occupied, Michaela one of the health visitors is there, eating a baked potato and playing some sort of game on her phone. Michaela is small, dark and bubbly, with a brisk efficiency when it comes to babies, and new mums; she’s just John’s type. She is also married to a man called Michael a fact the rest of the surgery staff find a source of great amusement. 

John Watson doesn’t want to engage in conversation but Michaela isn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. He half hears the words ‘a bit small’, ‘mum’s four foot eleven’ and  ‘husband’s five foot three’ he tunes in to the punch line “I felt like saying, unless you have a tall milkman you’re not going to have a tall toddler”. She laughs and John politely joins in. She absorbs his expression and the laughter stops, she turns and addresses him directly “Actually John, we were wondering, I mean Mike and I were wondering if you were free on Thursday evening”

John Watson is startled. He has no idea what is being asked of him. Michaela dissolves into giggles and manages to say “Heavens John, no need to look so horrified I’m not inviting you to a threesome” She giggles some more “Mike and I go to poker night at the ‘Star and Garter’ round the corner from us. It’s only a bit of fun and we thought you might like it” embarrassed that she has read his face so accurately, against his better judgement, John agrees.

John Watson goes to poker night, the game is friendly, the bidding low. He buys himself a fiver’s worth of chips and a pint and settles down at the table with Mike and Michaela. Mike is a town planner and one of the dullest men in England in John’s opinion, a stark contrast to his effervescent wife, but they say opposites attract. The other players are introduced, Allan, a bus driver, Debbie a friend of Michaela’s from nursing school and Debbie’s housemate, a teacher called Mary. All three look at John with curiosity but John is relived that it is his title that catches their interest not his name. This is not an occasion where the ghost of Sherlock Holmes is required. The night goes well, a further pint is consumed and then another. John has not played poker for years. Not since his days in the desert. He ends the night mildly drunk, four pounds lighter in his pocket and remarkably relaxed. He hasn’t thought about Sherlock for hours. He bids goodnight to his fellow players and is about to head home when Mary, who has hardly spoken all evening fixes her eyes on him and says quietly “see you next week?”

John Watson is getting better. Poker night rapidly becomes the high point of John’s week. His skill improves and he often takes home the small pot they play for (after he’s treated everyone to a drink of course). Mike gets a job in Doncaster and he and Michaela move away. Allan gets a chap and for a while they come to poker nights together but their spooning is a distraction and then their attendance intermittent. Mary and Debbie still appear regularly, when Debbie isn’t on nights. Other players join their table, new acquaintances are made, John’s enjoyment continues but it isn’t just the poker he comes to play for, there’s Mary. Gradually their friendship moves beyond the ‘Star and Garter’; a film at the Everyman, a birthday party for Debbie, a fundraiser for Mary’s school. Sometimes Mary doesn’t make it to poker herself, a heavy week at work, marking, parents’ evenings all intervene, John minds but not so much, they are seeing each other weekends anyway. 

John Watson is on his own the evening there’s a new face at the table. Allan, freshly single, has met him before and can’t wait to introduce them. “Seb, this is the man I was telling you about, John Watson, also served in Afghanistan”. The men shake hands, appraising each other, they like what they see. Sebastian Moran is fiftyish, tall, well built, the kind of blonde that never goes grey. Left the service at the rank of Colonel and John defers to him automatically. “Injured in the line of duty” says John avoiding mention of his award for gallantry. “Compulsorily retired a fifty” counters Moran skating over his less than honourable discharge “Miss it though; miss the buzz, don’t you?” “O God yes” thinks John.

John Watson and Sebastian Moran stand outside the ‘Star and Garter’ waiting for a cab, it’s raining and they are few and far between. “Off home then?” “Yes” says John “Baker Street” “Funnily enough I’m heading over that way myself, going to a little club I know just off the Edgware Road, called The Bagatelle, finish off the evening with a few more rounds. Why don’t we share?” John concurs and when at last an orange light appears ‘for hire’ they both get in. Sebastian brings John up to speed on the club he’s visiting, nice place, low key, stakes a little higher than the pub but nothing silly “Why don’t you join me” He asks “live a little” John demurs and alights at Baker Street, but watches the hackney and Moran depart, wistfully.

John Watson feels deflated, cowardly, unmanned. He climbs the stairs to his flat slowly, the non-existent injury to his leg paining him. He curls up on the sofa of 221b and cries into the emptiness. He will not sleep tonight and he knows better than to try. He boots up his laptop and goes on line, the poker sites are busy, what harm is there to join in just this once?

John Watson is in love.His friendship with Mary, _relationship_ as it should now be called is blooming. John is less and less at Baker Street, though he still pays his rent, collects his post and calls on Mrs Hudson regularly. 221b has a neglected air, mostly uninhabited. Talk occurs of bills; Debbie is getting married to a consultant paediatrician who has been married twice before. Mary is glad her John doesn’t come with so much baggage. More talk of bills, Mary cannot afford the rent alone and speaks of advertising for another housemate. John wonders vaguely if this is a hint. The house in Kilburn is clean and neat and Mary makes it homely. John thinks he could be content there even if it does mean living in zone 2. John takes Mary out to dinner and broaches the subject tentatively “He would…if Mary wants…he would like to…if it’s not too soon…no pressure”. Mary is delighted, it is what she wanted all along, and so John is delighted too. He wants to be with Mary, and it doesn’t make sense to keep shelling out for a flat he hardly lives in. (A flat with memories he’s rather keen to leave behind). It is decided he’ll move in in the summer, after Debbie’s wedding, before the start of term. He tells Mrs Hudson who hugs him, cries and laughs and hugs him again and says ‘You’ll be next”.

John Watson’s had a bad day, of fungal infections and headaches and diarrhoea and sickness and tired all the time – no not a bad day just a dull one and wryly he remembers in Sherlock’s mind those two things were the same. “I’m never bored” he’d said to Mycroft half a lifetime ago; the absence today is tangible. Mary is busy; an end of term production and report writing, poker takes a back seat. This time it is John who mentions the club to Moran who is delighted; together they leave the ‘Star and Garter’ early and take a cab to the little place just off the Edgware Road. The Bagatelle is warm and welcoming, the clientele friendly yet sophisticated, the atmosphere electric “any friend of Sebastian’s is a friend of ours”. John bets cautiously and plays well. He leaves the club with fifty quid more than he had when he arrived and with the promise to return. Soon John and Moran bypass the pub on Thursdays and go straight to The Bagatelle. Sometimes they play poker there (or blackjack) the afternoons John’s not working, but never at the weekend, John thinks the stakes too high. Mary doesn’t know, she only went along to poker nights to meet someone and she met John.

John Watson is lucky. He’s winning steadily and the practice he gets online is paying off. Living with Mary is easy, he’s better off; he hardly misses the money he spends on poker. Sebastian puts him up for membership of The Bagatelle. He can go there on his own now and frequently he does.  Christmas approaches. it is a year since he and Mary met, four months since he moved in with her.  Mary is away, a girls’ weekend to a Christmas market in the Midlands. John treats himself to a Saturday night of poker. Lady Fortuna smiles on him; he leaves the club at midnight two thousand pounds the richer.

John Watson goes to Hatton Garden; he knows what he is looking for, a platinum ring with a diamond, elegant, not too ostentatious, flawless, like his Mary. He books dinner in a restaurant Christmas Eve and after the desert he bends one knee in front of Mary and takes her hand “I’d like, if you are willing, to wake up Christmas morning with you as my fiancée” Mary nods her head and cries, the other diners applaud. The ring fits perfectly on the fourth finger of Mary’s left hand. It is beautiful. Mary is beautiful. Life is beautiful.

John Watson is getting married. Who knew you had to book a venue so many months in advance? Neither religious they spend their Saturdays at stately homes and posh hotels looking at banqueting suites and function rooms, and the views from terraces and the honeymoon suites and finally they book the wedding at a country house in Putney overlooking the Thames and John pays the deposit with his credit card. They spend their Sundays pouring over menus and John gasps at the prices, how much for quail’s eggs, and itty bitty Yorkshire puddings with a thumbnail of beef attached? It seems the more you pay the less you get. But they finally decide on a buffet for sixty people and John pays the deposit with his credit card. They price up flowers and favours, cars and champagne, bands and bridesmaid’s dresses. The cost mounts up.

John Watson is losing heavily. “Unlucky at cards, lucky in love” Moran teases. John wonders which he would prefer. His relationship with Mary has changed, seems strained, though he does not love her any less. Mary goes to bed much earlier than John most nights; she needs her sleep, teaching in inner city London is exhausting. They rarely seem to be awake in bed at the same time. If Mary notices she makes no comment. John, always a poor sleeper, more so since the death of Sherlock, stays downstairs alone and passes time fretting about money. One such night John suddenly remembers Sherlock’s violin, gathering dust in Baker Street. How much is a decent second hand violin worth these days? John switches on his laptop to google it but logs on to his favourite poker site instead. His luck will change tonight, he knows it. 

John Watson is short of money. At the wedding car hire showroom his credit card is declined, John huffs his away his humiliation and applies for another one, his third, online. Moran phones him, “John you’re quite a stranger, why don’t you play out tonight?” John makes his excuses “I’d love to but I’m really sorry, things are little tight just now, what with the wedding and all that” Moran understands – the little lady must come first; John feels emasculated and embarrassed “Pity, good pot tonight but you know best…” Moran hesitates and adds almost as an afterthought, “Though John if it is just cash flow, I’ve a charming little chap over Lavender Hill way most obliging, very reasonable, could introduce you if you need a few bob to tide you over”. John says no, never. But the rent is due, and John’s share is missing. 

John Watson calls Moran back and meets his friend; a tidy little man with a tidy little notebook and a tidy thousand pounds is John’s, no hassle. John can pay the man back when he is ready, just a few quid on top to cover his expenses, nothing is too much trouble to help a friend of Sebastian’s, he’d even go as far as to say it is an honour. John goes straight to the bank to deposit the money; a thousand in the joint account will pay the rent, the council tax and the house insurance, nine hundred will pay the rent and council tax, eight hundred will pay the rent. He’ll win the rest back easily in a night at the card table. Dame Fortune will be his champion tonight, he knows it

John Watson and the little man are friends, what’s a couple of hundred here and there between buddies? And if John can’t pay him back just now who’s counting? Once the wedding’s all been paid for money won’t be such a problem. Anyway John’s big win is just around the corner. 

John Watson is desperate. Moran’s little chap is not so friendly after all. John finds him seven hundred and he snorts in derision, this doesn’t even touch the interest, and the late repayment fees, and the trouble of coming up to Kilburn for the money. Another thirteen hundred should cover his inconvenience, he doesn’t take kindly to being called a blood sucker, make it nineteen hundred to soothe his wounded feelings; he does so hope John isn’t going to be tiresome. John doesn’t have the money.  John calls Moran on his mobile, the number’s unavailable. He goes to the club just off the Edgware Road; but finds the building derelict as if The Bagatelle had never existed. The little chap is angry, bad things happen when he’s angry, bad things happen to little ladies who teach in inner city schools, and to doctors who cannot pay their debts. The man’s tone is menacing and John wishes he still had his gun that would show him but then the man seems to relax and says…perhaps there’s still time to come to an arrangement. John hesitates to ask what such an arrangement will entail but has no option. “Nothing too difficult John” says the little chap “not for an NHS doctor. Just one little prescription pad, and one that’s not been reported missing” John scoffs; the idea is preposterous, such things are closely guarded and kept under lock and key. The charming little chap who is ever so obliging fixes John a cold hard stare and says “if you know what is best for you, and for your missus, you will find a way”.

John Watson panics, he is short with Mary,he wants to spend the night at poker, will she never go to bed? He eyes her engagement ring greedily; two thousand pound’s a lot of money to spend on someone he hardly knows. Mary senses there’s something wrong and begs John to talk to her. When he doesn’t answer she packs some things and goes to Debbie’s, perhaps some time apart is what they both need right now. John locks the door behind her and goes straight to his computer, from then on he plays poker nearly all night nearly every night and when he’s at the surgery he plays blackjack on his phone.

John Watson is let go, somehow he’s forgotten his post was only ever temporary. Arriving late, sleeping at his desk, abandoning work at the slightest excuse, these were all meant to be things that didn’t happen now John no longer hared across London at the heels of the world’s only consulting detective.  Sarah is fond of John and once had hopes of something more, she tries to fight his corner but the other partners are determined. Dr Watson is a liability and as such he has to go.

John Watson is scared, he thinks he’s being followed, he knows that he owes thousands, he cannot find the money and now he has no job. He thinks he should tell someone of the mess he has got himself into but he doesn’t trust the police, not after Sherlock. He cannot tell Mary, he cannot bear to see the look of disappointment in her eyes, when she knows just how much he’s failed her. The only other person he could share his troubles with is dead.

John Watson wants to speak to Moran, he goes to the ’Star and Garter’ but poker nights have ended, closed down for promoting gambling as a bit of harmless fun. John walks home to Kilburn, he cannot afford a cab, it is mid-October and the nights are drawing in. He smells the smoke before he sees it, tastes it in the air as he turns the final corner. The house is well alight, three fire engines are in attendance, the neighbours stand out in the street to watch the blaze. He does not need to be a detective to deduce what has happened, the fire is a warning.  He crosses to the other side of the road and keeps on walking.

John Watson is finished; he walks away from his burning house and the carnage he has created. He walks the length of Maida Vale and along the Marylebone Road until he comes to Baker Street. He thinks he read somewhere that a quarter of all London’s homeless are ex-servicemen and women. Now he’s one of their number. Tomorrow he will sell his watch and buy a sleeping bag, two months from now he will wake up next to a dead man and his annihilation will be complete. But for the moment he will stand awhile and stare up at the darken windows of the home he shared with Sherlock and beg him one more time to not be dead.


	2. Where is my happy ending?

Sherlock Holmes does not have to be a detective to know that something is badly wrong here. He is tired and somewhat disorientated when the car sent by Mycroft meets him at the docks but even so Anthea’s body language, bordering on the subdued, speaks volumes. Anthea tells Sherlock reluctantly that they are going to Mycroft’s house as Baker Street is unavailable. He glances at the smart phone on which Anthea is busy texting “Inform Mycroft that I must see him” Anthea doesn’t need to ask to whom ‘the him’ refers.

Sherlock Holmes is frustrated, required to take a bath and put on clean clothes before Mycroft will meet him; the arrogance of that man. But then again thinks Sherlock as he shaves and divests the guise of a sixty year old vagrant, he would prefer to look his best when he first sees John. He wonders if John’s changed much but dismisses the thought immediately. Some things are consistent and his John is one of them. For over two years now he has been sustained by thoughts of their reunion, a reunion which he hopes will take their friendship to another level. A sandwich and a cup of tea remain untouched as he is occupied by pacing. Mycroft had better have John with him when he finally arrives. 

Sherlock Holmes detects that Mycroft, usually so cool and distant, appears to say the very least a little flustered and his greeting to the brother whom he hasn’t seen for many months is perfunctory and distracted. Mycroft talks with Sherlock and discloses his arrangements to bring him to Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, and then the world at large. Someone is missing. Sherlock looks Mycroft up and down and asks him what he’s hiding?

Sherlock Holmes observes that Mycroft cannot meet his eyes when he reveals everything to Sherlock: of John and the gambling, of Mary and Moran, the money and the loan shark, the desperation and the fire. With every sentence Sherlock’s self-control is disintegrating. In contrast to Mycroft’s almost clinical approach to the whole sorry story, Sherlock flies at his brother in physical rage provoked beyond endurance. “You were supposed to protect him” Sherlock rails at the British Government “You let him fall into Moran’s web and left him there to be consumed by him”. Sherlock unhands his arch-enemy and Mycroft smoothes his lapels as Sherlock continues raging “So where is he then, if the fire was in October, how has he been living for the last two months?” Mycroft, countenance bleak, admits he doesn’t know.

Sherlock Holmes stares at his brother as he doesn’t believe him “Her Majesty’s secret service cannot keep tabs on the whereabouts of one solitary doctor?” Sherlock is incredulous and his expression scornful. Mycroft informs Sherlock that John is on CCTV standing on the pavement opposite the flat in Baker Street but that was over seven weeks ago, and since then has somewhat fallen off the radar. Sherlock gives his brother a look of contempt, contempt so vast, so deep that thirty years of filial disaffection pale in comparison. “How could John have fallen off your radar?” Mycroft cannot answer. He doesn’t know how it happened either.

Sherlock Holmes slumps defeated in the knowledge that it was all for nothing, the fake suicide and the hiatus designed to protect his dearest has failed as John is dead. It is the only explanation. Moran must have killed him when the fire proved unsuccessful, before Moran was killed by Sherlock in Dunkirk three days ago. Mycroft shakes him back to the living. John is not dead if Mycroft’s people say so. If Moran hadsuccessfully eliminated the good doctor he would have ensured that both the Holmes brothers were informed unequivocally. And if John is dead then where is the body?

Sherlock permits himself to be taken to meet Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. A tearful reunion ensues though Sherlock remains dry eyed while he allows them to hug him. In the corner of the room an elephant tries to attract their attention. Where is John?

Sherlock Holmes attends the press conference at his brother’s insistence. How can he do this without his blogger? Such is Sherlock’s despair Mycroft wishes he had lied to him, if such a thing were possible. Mycroft argues that the oxygen of publicity may draw John from his hiding place. Sherlock isn’t sure but at this point will try anything.

Sherlock Holmes returns to Baker Street but not in triumph, the man he died to save no longer at his side. When Mycroft arranges for items salvaged from the fire to be stored in John’s old room, their presence makes John’s absence even more acute. Sherlock meets with Mary, who is angry and bitter, she doesn’t know where John is and isn’t sure she cares. John’s is not the only life that has been destroyed by this and she wants Sherlock to suffer. Mary points the finger of blame squarely at the detective. Who was it who encouraged John in his thirst for adventure? Who fed the noxious habits of an adrenaline junkie? Who aggravated the trauma that led to John’s compulsive behaviour? Mary departs from Baker Street and slams the door behind her. If she hears from John she won’t let Sherlock know.

Sherlock Holmes gets a visit from Lestrade. Quietly and compassionately, drawing on his bereavement training, Lestrade tells Sherlock that a body has been found. A rough sleeper. A body which Paddington Green police have reason to believe is that of John Watson. Sherlock says that Molly would know John anywhere. Lestrade explains gently as if talking to the widow, “the pathologist is not Molly, the body is in Westminster public mortuary” Sherlock stands and puts his coat on; “take me there at once”.

Sherlock Holmes prepares to say his final goodbyes as he walks towards the mortuary, where Mycroft is already waiting. Lestrade acknowledges the older brother with a nod before he gives them privacy in their agonising task. Mycroft touches Sherlock’s forearm briefly in way that is both kind and apologetic and says to his brother “you don’t have to do this, there is always Harry” Sherlock expression grim says to the mortuary assistant “Let’s get it over with”. 

Sherlock Holmes views the body. The body found in a neglected underpass near the Embankment. The body that wears the dog tags of Captain J.H. Watson RAMC. The body of a man who died from cold and heart failure approximately five days ago. The body slight and sandy is aged and in poor condition and Sherlock shakes his head. However hard life has treated John Watson during his two year absence, whatever toll it may have taken on his physical appearance, Sherlock knows that John could not have added eight centimetres to his height. Relief floods Sherlock’s body in a way that makes him tremble, and while he cannot know the exact circumstances in which John’s tags found their way onto this body, Sherlock deduces they were placed deliberately by a man who wanted to be dead. Now it does not contain John Sherlock cannot wait to leave the mortuary. Mycroft observes his brother is in a state of agitation and in a gesture reminiscent of some three years earlier offers him a cigarette. Sherlock waves it way impatiently. The game is on. He has a case.

Sherlock Holmes discovers much to his annoyance that in past two years his homeless network has almost completely dissipated; a combined result of the harsh winter and other contributing factors. The lucky ones have been rehoused and are scattered round the city. The unlucky are dead. Sherlock renews his contacts with the few that are remaining, seeking information about the missing John. He asks them to distribute the stills taken from the CCTV in Baker Street the night John disappeared. The photos are not that clear despite the digital enhancement; they show a man with his face in shadow, and another full length shot of a short man wearing jeans, jumper and a jacket but it’s not a lot to go on and Sherlock knows it is unlikely that John still looks the same.

Sherlock Holmes does the rounds of homeless shelters while Mycroft’s people scan the CCTV footage, all searching for John Watson. It is three days before Christmas and temporary shelters are springing up in church rooms and other public buildings and Sherlock finds it difficult to keep track of them all. The remnant of the homeless network report in on a regular basis, and Sherlock adds to their number, building a new set of contacts out of this desperate situation. The network know the kind of places that only homeless people go to and they want to help their Sherlock, not only for the money, but so far they’ve drawn a blank. The agents who’ve been detailed to review days and days of CCTV recordings, many of dubious quality, have logged various sightings, and produced more stills of homeless men, and boys, and even women who fit John’s general description but nothing concrete. With one possible exception. Sherlock knows this searching is dependent on John still being in London; Sherlock is as certain as he can be that John is but he doesn’t know for sure. Even London, his first love, is an enemy here, absorbing John into its fabric and hiding him from Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes is talking to a support worker at St Mungo’s, she is kind and sympathetic but she is rushed off her feet. Two days before Christmas and the hostels full to bursting she spares Sherlock, whom she recognises from the telly, five minutes to look at the photographs, the two from Baker Street and the other one, more recent, that Sherlock is convinced is John, though the blue hoody does its best to obscure the features. It consists of a man begging in the doorway of a boarded up building just off the Edgware Road, covered in a blanket and at his feet a smallish greyish bundle that is possibly a rucksack. The building that used to be The Bagatelle Card Club. She tells Sherlock sadly, as she can tell the man is grieving, that she cannot place a likeness though (as she wants to be helpful) suggests that Sherlock concentrates on the shelters that let the homeless take their dog. “Dog?” exclaims Sherlock looking at the woman as if she has taken leave of her senses “John Watson doesn’t have a dog!” the lady smiles at Sherlock while pointing to the greyish bundle “well, if this is your friend, he does now”. 

Sherlock Holmes slaps his head and groans “a dog! There’s always something!” and rushes off to Mycroft where with the relevant technology the CCTV is re-examined and a photo of the dog extracted. It may a red herring but Sherlock starts the rounds again.

Sherlock Holmes hasn’t slept or eaten since he learned that John was missing. Despite disparaging his transport he knows his body is rebelling.  He stops off at a drop-in round the corner from Trafalgar Square and forces down a mince pie just to stop himself from fainting and thinks that while he’s here he might as well circulate the photos. London’s homeless is fluid, there may well be new people in a place he’s been before. It’s Christmas Eve and the drop-in is heaving in a last minute attempt to get a referral for a bed this evening. While he gulps down a second cup of scalding black coffee, a girl he doesn’t know approaches Sherlock and asks to look again at the most recent photo. She studies the man carefully and regrets she hasn’t seen him, but she is pretty certain that she has seen the dog recently. “Funny looking thing like a cross between a corgi and some kind of retriever, solid sort of body on kind of stumpy legs” The irony of the description is not lost on Sherlock who menaces the girl and says “Where? Think girl think! Where did you see the dog?” The girl has lived on the streets for three years and is not easily intimidated but it crosses her mind if she was then Sherlock would. She closes her eyes and thinks of where she’s been in the last few days, begging on the concourse outside Euston station, opportunist thieving from the Christmas shoppers in Oxford Street, once to The Passage for breakfast and shower, same again at Walmer Place. “That’s it, that’s where I saw that dog” she exclaims delighted with her brilliance “tied to the tree outside the day centre in Walmer Place”.  She looks to Sherlock for reward or affirmation but he’s gone.

Sherlock Holmes sprints from the shelter and hails a passing taxi, it’s gone midday already and Walmer Place closes at one.  A journey that should take ten minutes is taking half an hour.  Impatiently he curses the traffic in central London, he berates the driver and tells him to go faster, he’s been ambivalent about cab drivers since one tried to kill him. The cabbie turns into Park Lane and mutters something about Christmas but he weaves his way through the traffic and he makes it with five minutes to spare. Sherlock thrusts a twenty at the driver and wrestles with the cab door before it is unlocked.

Sherlock Holmes is haranguing a receptionist. Used to all sorts in the homeless centre she toys with the alarm that goes straight through to the police. The duty manager appears, alerted to the hint of trouble, but he recognises Sherlock, in the past he was a fan, and has followed his resurrection with keen interest. Sherlock shows the man the photo with the dog and states that he believes the person pictured was in the centre at some point in the last five days. The centre has security cameras as would be expected and the manager, thrilled to be helping the famous Sherlock, takes him to his office where the CCTV screen is situated. The manager sets the playback for Thursday 19th December and they watch the fast forward from when the centre opens. Thursday draws a blank but there it is on Friday between 10.19.30 and 10.23.54, the diminutive figure of Dr John Watson at the reception desk. The manager confirms to Sherlock that the centre keeps a record of all its service users but here he gets twitchy, and says there are data protection issues that he has to consider. 

Sherlock Holmes takes out his mobile phone to contact Lestrade… Mycroft… God…anyone who can get him a warrant or whatever it is he needs to get his hands on those records. The manager relents, the centre has already closed, it’s Christmas Eve and he needs to get home to Ilford before the journey becomes impossibly delayed by the threatened storms. He calls up the records of Friday morning and looks to see who booked in between 10.20 and 10.25. He finds the entry; a rough sleeper called “John…” at this Sherlock’s heart takes a leap “McDonald”. McDonald thinks Sherlock well that is interesting…no doubt that was the name of the dead man from the underpass. John has obviously purloined his identity at the same time as he discarded his own.  The manager apologises and says apart from that he cannot help Sherlock. From what he can tell John McDonald is a relatively new user of the centre,  they’ve had little contact with him, they have not learned his story and he’s refused all offers of help, apart from the most basic food and clothing. He escorts Sherlock back to the reception area, the detective’s shoulders sagging; although he should be pleased with the assurance that as of Friday John was alive and still in London, apart from his new name he doesn’t seem to have got any closer despite all his hard work.  The receptionist is sat behind the desk with her hat and coat on; she too has a home to get to in the wind and rain. She hands Sherlock the photograph he left with her when he went off with the manager, catches Sherlock’s expression and takes pity on him.  “Well young man, if you hadn’t shouted at me and tried listening instead I could have told you. The man you are looking for was here again this morning. We’ve placed him in St Roch’s shelter for tonight because they’ll take his dog” 

Sherlock Holmes surprises both himself and the receptionist by spinning her in her chair and kissing her firmly on both cheeks. 

Sherlock Holmes has seven hours to kill before the shelter opens. He calls Mycroft to inform him that he has a lead on John and if it is correct the search is nearly over. Mycroft tries to warn Sherlock to be careful what he wishes for but when this falls on deaf ears he contents himself with the reminder that John has nothing but the clothes that he stands up in and a small dog in tow. Mycroft sighs at Sherlock’s dismissal of this intelligence and says he will take care of it. Which he does or rather he dispatches the long suffering Anthea to battle Oxford Street on Christmas Eve to source the necessary items (and with resignation adds 50% to her Christmas bonus). Sherlock grudgingly thanks Mycroft for his assistance and is vaguely horrified when he calculates all the favours he now owes his older brother. Mycroft also reminds Sherlock that normal people eat and that the shops will soon be closing for the Christmas holiday. Sherlock cajoles and whines a little but Mycroft is adamant this is where he draws the line. In bad grace Sherlock visits the local Tesco’s and buys milk and eggs and bread and the things he thinks may be sufficient to make a chicken dinner; if John isn’t up to cooking then maybe Mrs Hudson will oblige. The trial of shopping almost complete, in a fit of uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, Sherlock throws in the basket two types of biscuit, human and canine, and a tin of Chum. He escapes the crowded supermarket and for the first time in his life is seen approaching Baker Street on foot with shopping, even Sherlock cannot justify a cab to travel 135 metres. 

Sherlock Holmes bounces into 221 and calls for Mrs Hudson and tells her John is coming home. Mrs Hudson follows Sherlock up the stairs she is beside herself with happiness at Sherlock’s news. She starts fussing with his shopping and brings sheets and blankets from the airing cupboard to make up John’s old bed, while Sherlock lights the fire. Mycroft’s minions arrive delivering Anthea’s purchases, and Mrs Hudson once again gets busy directing, toiletries to the bathroom, jumpers in the wardrobe, and pyjamas on the bed. Once this has been achieved and the flat is warm and cosy Sherlock takes up his violin and plays ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas” because he knows it reminds Mrs Hudson of a happier time and if she’s in a good mood she’ll most likely bring him tea. After Mrs Hudson departs Sherlock decides to spend the hours before he can leave for the shelter composing, a melody to celebrate John’s homecoming, but this project is soon abandoned when he cannot stop the sadness that permeates the music, however hard he tries.

Sherlock Holmes is finally in a car on way to the shelter, a car sent by Mycroft when Sherlock realised the weather is deteriorating and it might not be so easy to get a cab on Christmas Eve - yet another favour Sherlock owes his brother though in truth he has stopped counting. In a rare insight into the way Mycroft’s mind works it dawns on him that his brother somehow feels culpable in regard to John Watson’s plight; a recognition that Sherlock intends to capitalise on at a later date. The shelter is in a community hall where twenty camp beds are laid out dormitory style. In a room next door seventeen homeless men of all ages and nine helpers are watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” while two others are playing pool.

Sherlock Holmes flashes Lestrade’s warrant card at the shelter manager and tells him who he’s after. The shelter manager sighs and thinks it would have been a Christmas miracle if they hadn’t had at least one visit from the police. He knows the resident in question, he has stayed at St Roch’s before and has already caused concern with his reluctance to speak, or eat, engage with the support workers or take advantage of the facilities. This evening he is the only one not partaking of the activities instead Sherlock will find John McDonald lying on his bed.

Sherlock Holmes views the treasure he has been seeking ever since he returned to England suddenly nervous, a hundred thoughts are crowding out his brain with too much data. Does John even know that Sherlock has returned to the living? Has he seen a newspaper since he’s been on the streets? Cursing he almost wishes that he had brought Mycroft with him, what a turn up for books is that! Sherlock draws a breath and observes his only friend; he is lying on his bed left arm tucked beneath his head. Sherlock knows John only rests like that when he needs to stop the tremor. Silently Sherlock pads across the room until he stops beside John’s bed. The dog serves its purpose and softly growls a warning. John’s eyes are open but without looking he says “You’re too late”.

Sherlock Holmes is speechless in that his rehearsed speech is worthless. His dream of the reunion lies in tatters at his feet. He thought there might be shouting, swearing, even violence when John first saw him, but in his funny little head which knows so much yet understands nothing about people it always ended with a reconciliation (and John in his arms). Sherlock gathers enough of his wits to begin talking, to explain, to try to reason, but all is met with uncomfortable silence and unacknowledged by John. Then after about twenty minutes of Sherlock’s babbling John sits up and says “you’re not going to go away are you” Sherlock  doesn’t know if this is a statement or a question. John puts on his shoes and reaches for a small bag and the dog’s lead, and limps out of the shelter pausing only, as the gentleman he is, to apologise to the manager for his inconvenience. Sherlock follows him hurriedly and shows him to the car.

Sherlock Holmes brings John (and the dog) back to Baker Street in silence. A buoyant Mrs Hudson greets them at door but Sherlock shoos her away.  Sherlock climbs the steps to 221b with John slowly behind him, and enters the flat while John hesitates at the door waiting to be invited in. John settles the dog; it seems to be nameless, before turning to Sherlock and saying “May I have a bath?” Sherlock is bewildered when he realises that apparently John does not remember where the bathroom is. He starts the bath running then fetches towels and the pyjamas. He points to toiletries on the bathroom shelf and waits anxiously for half an hour outside the door until John emerges. Sherlock notices John has shaved badly and his face is bleeding, another indication that the tremor is back. John looks around the room with no hint of recognition “I’d like to go to bed now if I may, is there a place for me to sleep?” Sherlock leads John up the stairs to his old bedroom; the situation is so abnormal that he is lost for words. John looks around the room and says “Well this could be nice” is it an unconscious echo or just what John would say? John turns and holds out his hand for Sherlock to shake it before climbing into bed. John says politely in a voice that sounds too distant “Thank you for having me to stay, there are not many people who’d give a homeless person a room at Christmas; I’ll try not to be too much trouble. I’d like to go to sleep now would you please turn out the light”

Sherlock Holmes lies on the couch in the early hours of Christmas morning and grieves for his John and his dreams for their life together. In his plans for the future John did not change except in the one most crucial way, the change from partner in The Work to partner in every possible definition. Sherlock thinks back to that day when he stood on the roof of St Bartholomew’s and said farewell to his doctor; remembering the tone of John’s voice that made him believe that Sherlock was more than just a friend. The memory of that voice and all it promised has kept Sherlock alive through months of unspeakable acts and deprivations. But he did not envisage; blame it on lack of empathy that while he was away John’s life could not, would not, stand still. 

Sherlock Holmes hears screams in the night that are not his own.He doesn’t need to be a doctor to diagnose the problem. Awake John Watson has retreated to a place of safety, a time before Sebastian Moran played on his weaknesses in order to destroy him, before he met and loved and ultimately betrayed Mary Morstan, before his best friend jumped from a tall building, before James Moriarty tried to use him as a living bomb, before Mrs Hudson let him flat share 221b, before Mike Stamford introduced him, before Sherlock Holmes. Asleep there is no such refuge. In dreams John’s subconscious mind knows he has descended into madness, a place where ghosts are present and dead men walk the streets. 

Sherlock Holmes runs up the stairs as John’s screaming has not abated. The dog is agitated and whining at the door. Sherlock enters the room guardedly as he cannot anticipate what he will find inside. From the light from the hallway he sees the bed in shambles; John night terrors have him thrashing left and right as if he is drowning. Sherlock stays by the door and softly calls “John, John” until he sees John’s eyes have opened then crosses to the bed and sits down on it. Sherlock gently runs his hand across John’s forehead “it’s ok, you were dreaming” John grabs hold of Sherlock’s free hand and whispers “don’t leave me”.

Sherlock Holmes sits motionless on the bed until he is sure that John is sleeping. The wind outside is making the window frame rattle and the room is icy. He hesitates for a moment and then remembers John’s instruction. He pulls back the covers and climbs into the bed. Perhaps his presence will keep the demons at bay. Sherlock is far from comfortable.  His rogue transport is responding to the sound and smell of John at such close proximity. Sherlock is mortified to discover such an inappropriate reaction. John shifts in his sleep causing his thigh to brush the tip of Sherlock’s erection. “You can if you like, I don’t mind” startled as he thought John was asleep Sherlock is heartbroken to receive the offer he has longed for in such desperate circumstances “Is that how it works now John? You would allow me to rape you in return for a little security” John does not know the answer.

Sherlock Holmes wants to kill them. Everyone who has damaged or abused his beloved doctor, everyone who has demeaned him or made him feel worthless, and that includes himself. Sherlock lies on his back staring up at the darkness, arm curled tightly round the small form of a broken man whose head is on his shoulder, and tries to remember how to cry. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have tried to stay true to homelessness and debt in London. Walmer Place and St Roch's are fictional but based on real places. Other venues are as named.


End file.
